Chapter 57: A City Full of Nobles

  “So this place is that interesting? I must go see it!” Upon hearing Ethan describe Oufu City, Lord Bolgan immediately showed great enthusiasm. He had originally come to the capital to hand over his position as a local official in Bracada and now had nothing to do. “To govern orcs so well… to build a city from scratch—truly remarkable. It’s like a dream city! I must go. And those punishments of yours—so creative, they’re almost an art form.” The former Bracada administrator’s ox-like eyes lit up, the kind of look a lecher gets at the thought of a beauty or a glutton at the idea of a lifelong feast. He was utterly intoxicated by the vision of that rough, orc-filled city. “I’ll leave tomorrow! Tomorrow!” He slammed his fist on the table and shouted, “Boss, another catty of braised beef!”

  Ethan warned him, “There’s a war in the west. Are you asking for death?”

  “Of course I’ll go around through other countries,” Bolgan said triumphantly. “Thanks to you, I’ve even earned enough for the trip. I still don’t get why you thought your friend would lose—even I could tell his chances were far better.”

  “Well, I figured a man with no status or connections wouldn’t get much use out of the championship,” Ethan said, pretending to be insightful and passing off the Chancellor’s warnings to Rodhart as his own judgment. “He’d be better off losing on purpose to gain the Chancellor’s trust. Then he could… So I thought he’d throw the match. Now I’m worried he acted on impulse and will be pushed out by the Chancellor later.”

  “Nonsense,” Bolgan declared with a snort. “Winning will bring him far greater benefits. The Chancellor’s faction doesn’t control the entire court. By defeating the Chancellor’s nephew, Rodhart just proved to the military ministers that he has nothing to do with the Erney family. And the military needs someone who’s likable and popular with the people—plus the emperor likes him. He’ll have a brighter future in the military than he ever would serving the nepotistic Erneys. Hey, friend—you know what the most valuable resource is these days? Talent. I saw that, which is why I bet on your friend.”

  “Oh? Is that right?” Ethan was stunned. It did make sense. “But wait—the Chancellor bribed him, and Rodhart agreed. If he planned to win, why didn’t he refuse the Chancellor to his face? Isn’t he afraid of angering him by going back on his word?”

  “You’re wrong again,” Bolgan shot down his argument. “It’s the Chancellor who’s afraid. Rigging the Paladin Order’s selection is a major crime. Either he risks killing your friend to silence him—which is an even bigger risk—or he’s stuck with your friend holding this leverage over him, too scared to act against him. Smart move. Sharp mind, clever scheming.” Bolgan bit off a chunk of beef and chewed vigorously.

  Clever scheming. Ethan suddenly thought back to when he’d first met Rodhart a few months earlier. Back then, Rodhart had been naive and simple. Now, his thoughts were far beyond Ethan’s reach. It seemed people could mature and grow at an astonishing pace once they set their minds to it.

  Bolgan continued his analysis: “When I saw him in Bracada, I never would’ve guessed he had it in him. Must be because he’s been with Duke Mrak. You learn from the company you keep—follow a good man, you become good; follow a bad man, you become bad; follow a witch, you learn to dance with spirits.”

  “Do you know Duke Mrak well?” Ethan asked. He’d picked up bits of court gossip lately, and Mrak’s reputation as a virtuous man was universal.

  “Not really,” Bolgan said. “But anyone with a reputation that spotless is definitely a master of manipulation.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Who’s the best liar?” Bolgan asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “The one who never seems to lie,” Bolgan replied. “Because no one’s ever caught him in a lie—so no one suspects him. For twenty years, Mrak has climbed the ranks faster than anyone else in the empire, and he’s done it without drawing attention. You think you can get to his position in officialdom with just honesty, hard work, and effort? The key is that he’s made it this far and still has a reputation for being incorruptible. That’s the mark of a true master of scheming. ‘Great skill looks like clumsiness; great wisdom looks like foolishness.’ The best players leave no traces. Just look at your friend—here’s a man with skill, talent, and brains, yet Mrak didn’t give him an important position. Instead, he let him stay a commoner. That’s brilliant.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Who’d invest in an asset that’s already labeled as someone’s property?” Bolgan explained. “First, you present him as a ‘clean’ talent with no ties. Let others pour resources into him until he’s ‘profitable’—then you pull out the ‘ownership papers’ and take him over without lifting a finger. It’s a no-lose deal. And that crucial ‘ownership paper’? Heh—it’s the ‘princess’ your friend rescued from the dragon’s lair in Bracada. Back in Bracada, I could tell he had a soft spot for the duke’s daughter. And you’ve seen the effect of keeping him a commoner—it’s a perfect way to win over the people. Everyone loves a hero who rises from rags to riches. Mrak arranged this pawn’s moves without anyone noticing. Only a ‘virtuous’ man like Duke Mrak could pull off something so clever. Truly brilliant.” Bolgan spoke fluently, his expertise far outshining his rough appearance.

  “You’re the one who’s brilliant,” Ethan said, genuinely impressed by the coarse-looking dwarf. “Hey—you’re wasting that brain of yours not doing more.”

  Bolgan laughed. It was meant to be self-deprecating, but his wide mouth stretched into a grin that looked like a deliberate mockery. “Scheming isn’t just about brains—it’s about cunning. You have to be willing to think nonstop, to watch everyone around you, to calculate the consequences of every word and action. What’s their stance? How will they react? How will their reaction affect others? And on and on… It’s more complicated than an alchemist mixing potions. I don’t have the stomach for it. At most, I can spot what they’re up to.”

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  “Damn it,” Ethan cursed softly. “Why is everyone so sharp? I’m starting to doubt my own intelligence.”

  “That’s just petty cleverness,” Bolgan said, adopting a scholarly tone. “People who obsession over power and scheming are just weaklings corrupted by this power-hungry world. True wisdom—that’s real strength. It means having unshakable self-awareness, not being confused by emotions or your surroundings. These people don’t compromise with the world, so they seem out of place—but they don’t rebel either. To them, the world and themselves are equals. Being spiritually equal to the world—that’s real strength. Like you and me.”

  “Haha, that’s a nice compliment,” Ethan laughed. “Too bad I know those ‘weak’ officials could order a thousand men to chop us into mincemeat with a single word.”

  “Because spirit and reality are always two different things,” Bolgan quoted again, then grinned, revealing his large teeth. “Just reciting what I read. I used to be a librarian in my hometown. Alright, I’m full. I need to prepare for my trip.” He ate the last piece of beef and let out a contented burp.

  After seeing Bolgan off, Ethan returned to Sandro’s house. Even though he was about to be promoted to cleric, he still lived there. He hadn’t thought about moving, nor had he considered that a cleric might be expected to live somewhere more “appropriate.” To him, the promotion was just a temporary perk for helping the bishop. But within a few days, rumors began to spread: people praised his devotion and humility—even after his promotion, he remained modest, continuing to work comfortingly the dead. His noble character and virtue were held up as an example for all clergymen. Ethan was confused—he hadn’t done anything, yet his reputation kept growing.

  Another invitation had arrived that day. Sandro was complaining about how these messengers disrupted his peace—upon seeing the state of his house (filled with corpses), they either vomited, wet themselves, or fled in terror, their legs weak with fear.

  Since Ronis had appointed him cleric, Ethan had received almost daily invitations from Duke Mrak to dinners and balls—each with an excuse he couldn’t refuse, delivered with overwhelming enthusiasm. Every night, he got a taste of the capital’s true opulence: noble ladies and young misses dressed in finery, unimaginable delicacies, young nobles scribbling their names on ladies’ fans before dancing until they sweated through their clothes, then linking arms to sneak off and “continue sweating” elsewhere. Many noblewomen and maidens were interested in the new cleric, but his famous devotion and the aura of detachment he carried made them hesitant to approach.

  The elaborate dishes and pastries were indeed delicious—even ordinary fruits were carved into intricate shapes and drizzled with honey. The first time Ethan saw them, he hadn’t even recognized what they were. The luxury was eye-opening: gold and silver utensils, crystal chandeliers, even the servants carrying wine wore clothes that, back in his village, only the elders would take out for festivals. But for all the wonder, Ethan felt more alive when he’d slept in tree hollows, chewed on insects, and drunk raw blood in the wild. He still remembered the sight of people starving to death, and stories of famines where parents had to trade their children to eat. He’d learned to measure wealth the way he had in Bracada—and none of this luxury seemed impressive.

  The flattery he received felt meaningless; he could tell it was insincere. Praise for his “unwavering faith” and “promising future” was far less interesting than chatting with a butcher at the market. And the topics everyone discussed—how a marquis had struck it rich by finding a mine on his land, how a viscountess had added two more love affairs to her list—bored him to tears. More than once, he’d wished for an excuse to start a fight: discovering a lord was a spy, or a lady was a Necromancer Guild mage in disguise. But that kind of luck never came.

  Whenever Ethan grew tired of these events, the duke would come over to talk, always finding a way to make him stay—hoping he’d gradually get used to the atmosphere. But no matter how many times he went, Ethan still felt out of place.

  Two nights earlier, he’d shocked everyone. He’d dropped a pastry on the floor, then picked it up, blew on it, and popped it into his mouth. The people around him had stared in disbelief at the “noble” cleric. Ethan had realized he’d done something “unforgivable” and felt awkward.

  But Duke Mrak had clapped excitedly, praising Ethan’s “exalted virtue” and calling the act “full of philosophy and meaning.”

  When everyone—after Mrak’s erudite explanation—had burst into applause and looked at Ethan with respect, he’d noticed a strange expression flicker across the duke’s face. The next day, Mrak had sent no invitation, and Ethan had finally breathed a sigh of relief—though he also felt he’d let the duke down after all his enthusiasm.

  This time, however, the invitation was from Rodhart—warm and earnest, begging him to come.

  No matter what your position, once you stepped into officialdom, you had to attend social events and network. So the military had hosted a celebration for the newly promoted knight. Ethan was already tired of such gatherings, but he’d suddenly wondered what Rodhart would be like as the guest of honor—and how he’d differ from himself. So he went.

  The celebration was well-attended. Everyone favored the knight who’d won the emperor’s approval, and noble ladies and misses flocked to see the hero who seemed straight out of a novel.

  Ethan watched Rodhart chat with others, smiling as he mingled with noble maidens. He realized he couldn’t compare to Rodhart in this regard. Rodhart’s perfect, friendly smile was like a charming mask—hiding his true feelings while still allowing him to show just the right emotions at the right time. Ethan thought back to when they’d first met: Rodhart had been impulsive and naive, his every thought written on his face. Comparing that to now, he understood—this smile was a skill. It was still a little awkward, still new, but clearly promising.

  “I wouldn’t be here today without you,” Rodhart said quietly, slipping over to Ethan when he had a free moment. Only with this friend did he drop the charming smile; his expression was plain, no longer dazzling, and Ethan could see a mix of gratitude and other emotions that didn’t belong on a hero riding high on success.

  “I heard your conversation with the Chancellor,” Ethan whispered. “Did Duke Mrak tell you to do that? He’s the only one with that kind of cleverness and foresight.”

  Rodhart looked surprised and shook his head. “No. How would the duke know about that? Did anyone else hear?”

  “Don’t worry—no one else knows,” Ethan said, staring at him. “You’re pretty sharp, huh? That trick of yours doesn’t exactly line up with the chivalry you used to talk about.”

  Rodhart nodded helplessly. “When things are on the line, you have to use effective methods. At first, it felt wrong—but it’s like getting the measles. Once you get past the first discomfort, the rest gets easier.” He gave Ethan a naive smile. “You have to face problems head-on, summon the courage to solve them, and not let imaginary principles hold you back. I learned that from you.”

  “Are you sure?” Ethan gave him a skeptical glance. “I could never do something like that.”

  “I need a favor,” Rodhart said softly. “You have to help me. Only you can.”

  Ethan suddenly remembered—Bishop Ronis had said almost the same thing when assigning him his current task. His heart tightened. Favors like this were never good, but under Rodhart’s trusting, pleading gaze, he couldn’t bring himself to say no.